Page 37 of June
My throat tightened.
"And you're allowed to feel angry," he went on. "You're allowed to feel it all. He let you down. That doesn't just vanish because you've been healing. It's not a straight line. Some days you dance forward, other days you sit in your robe and eat bacon and feel like crap. It's all part of it."
I tried to smile. "Very poetic, Dad."
He shrugged. "What can I say? I've lived through my fair share of heartbreaks. And guess what? Every time, I thought I'd never get over it. Every time, I was wrong."
"I just feel... stupid."
"Don't youdaresay that," he said, suddenly serious. "You were brave enough to love someone with your whole heart. Brave enough to plan forever with him. And now? You're brave enough to keep going even when it hurts."
He reached across the table and took my hand, giving it a soft squeeze.
"You are not weak for feeling things deeply. That's your strength, Junebug. That's what makes youyou. And anyone who can't see the magic in that? Isn't worth the front-row seat."
I looked at him, tears stinging the back of my eyes.
"I just want it to stop hurting."
"It will," he promised, voice quiet. "Not all at once. But bit by bit. Some mornings you'll wake up and it'll be lighter. Some mornings you'll laugh at a dumb joke or burn your eggs or teach a nerdy boy how to waltz and forget, just for a moment, that your heart was ever broken."
Dad then smiled, then stood and walked around the table. He leaned down and kissed the top of my head.
"You're going to be okay, sweetheart. Not because you'll go back to who you were before him—but because you'll grow into someone even stronger. Even wiser. And still just as full of light."
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
"And hey—when you dance your way through this? I'll be right here, watching. Always cheering."
I nodded, overwhelmed with quiet gratitude.
"Now eat," he said, patting my shoulder. "Before I cry and start telling you about my first breakup with a girl named Belinda who only listened to ABBA."
I laughed again, full and real this time. "God, please don't."
"Too late," he said, turning back to the stove. "Dancing Queen changed my life."
He leaned down again and kissed my forehead. Not in a rush. Not distracted. Just that lingering, full-of-love kind of kiss that only dads can give.
"I'm proud of you," he whispered. "Even on the days you don't move. Especially on those."
I blinked fast, nodding. "Thanks, Dad."
After he left—muttering something about needing milk and bananas—I wandered back into the living room, still hugging a warm mug between my palms.
Then came the knock.
I froze.
I stood slowly, still wrapped in my robe, hair tied up in a loose bun that had mostly surrendered its shape. I wasn't expecting anyone.
When I opened the door, Liam stood there, holding a container cradled in both hands like it was fragile. And, of course, he lookedperfectly himbut more casual—dark hair neatly in place like the stars lined it up that way, a soft v-neck shirt that showed just a peek of his collarbone and a few freckles below, glasses slipping just a little down his nose.
But it was hiseyesthat stopped me. Piercing blue, clear and earnest.
"Um... morning, June," he said, voice soft and almost bashful.
I blinked, then caught myself staring at his neck and the hint of his chest.
